


all this and heaven too

by papenathy



Category: The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, boris perspective on his feelings for theo, descriptions of violence, i don't know how to write kotku i kinda made her up for development, i honestly can't tell if it sucks, references to drugs and alcohol, references to violence, three part fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 20:47:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20712290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papenathy/pseuds/papenathy
Summary: Sometimes Boris wishes he knew how long he had left with Theo before he left to return to New York, maybe he would’ve done things differently—but it wouldn’t have changed the way he fell in love with him.In other words; the occasions on which Boris realises he loves Theo, and there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it.





	all this and heaven too

**Author's Note:**

> i worked rlly hard on planning this whole mf thing out so... i would appreciate feedback if ur willing to give some! i have Not seen the movie yet (just a psa) it's not out in my country so this is still book inspired and all that jazz. anyways, i hope you guys enjoy it. there's a playlist link in the notes at the end, if you want to listen to boris' playlist for theo and give it a follow.

_ FEBRUARY 9TH, 2005  _ _ — 416 days until Potter leaves _

A dim orange glow melts through the translucent curtains that are too long, ending in puddles of fabric on the carpet, and settles against the cream coloured walls—curling around the doorframe like a safety blanket and transforming into darkness when it reaches the crack under the door. A streetlight hand placed just outside; one of the only sources of solace for the two boys when the extended nights become too dark and feel as though they’ll never end. The moon is behind the clouds on this particular night, and it makes them feel nauseous. What other proof is there that they are living, and not six feet underground? How are they to know they’re existing on an earth that’s slowly turning if they can’t see the moon travel across the sky? 

“Boris.” 

He’s not quite awake, he can’t figure out if he’s dreaming.

“Boris, are you awake?” 

Neon green, like the lights down at the strip—the clock tells him it’s seven minutes past three in the morning. His vision is blurred, but he can just about make out the numbers and his companion rolling over on the bed beside him. He thinks he lets out a mumble, he’s not sure; he feels his chest vibrate but he can’t hear himself release any sound, and he thinks about the act moving but is ultimately unable to follow through. 

“What is it, Potter?” He mumbles, although it’s barely audible. He lets his eyes droop again and exhales, slowly but surely. He’s so exhausted that he wants to let the old mattress swallow him whole. 

He hears a cough and a heavy breath.“I—” the bed sinks down slightly with the movement of his friend slowly sitting upright, and that’s when Boris feels overcome with concern. “I don’t feel well.” 

Boris peels his eyes open and haphazardly pushes away the locks of dark hair away from his face, he lets out a yawn—still not having enough energy to turn to Theo beside him. “In what way?” 

“Like I—” it sounds as if he swallows a lump in his throat. This is when Boris sits up, pushing himself into a sitting position with his hands and leaning against the headboard of the bed; he takes a moment to look at Theo,  _ his Potter _ . His legs had been kicked out from under the covers like he had woken up in a sweat—he had them crossed, his hands in his lap and his gaze firmly fixed on his tangled fingers almost as if he would throw up if he looked away. His hair—dishevelled—catches clusters of that same orange glow and his chest rises up and down with short, erratic breaths. “I think I’m gonna—”

Panic stricken, Boris springs to life and hurls himself up from the bed, bare feet landing on the wire of discarded earphones, he dodges an empty beer bottle and a paperback copy of  _ Walden _ before he makes it to the position in front of Theo. “Bathroom—” Boris starts, leaning forward and grabbing his friend by the wrists attempting to pull him up; he won’t budge. “Potter, I don’t want your insides all over the floor. Come to the bathroom, now.” 

“I can’t.” he’s somewhere else, he’s not in the room.  _ Heck,  _ Boris isn’t sure he’s even on the planet. His distant gaze almost matches that of a sleepwalker and Boris is reminded of the few times his father would drunkenly sleepwalk across the hall into the bathroom in his own house that he never seemed to be in anymore.

He manages to pull Theo up into a standing position, his body is limp and weak like an old stuffed animal and his legs almost fail him, buckling under an unexpected weight as if he’s never stood before. Boris moves himself so he’s standing behind him for support and gives him a gentle, yet firm, push towards the bathroom door that’s situated a few metres from the end of the bed. He hopes he can make it there in time. 

“You can, Potter. Come on, you will be alright,” he whispers, mostly to avoid waking up the sleeping maltese on the end of the bed who would start rapidly barking and scrambling around the two boys’ ankles if he saw them in distress. Then Larry would wake up, or Xandra; he couldn’t decide which would be worse. It had never particularly occurred to him how thin the walls in that little suburban hideaway were, like sheets of paper almost—waiting to be torn through; but then again, he feels safe there. Protected. Maybe it’s not the walls, but Theo himself that makes him feel that way—a way that he hasn’t felt with anyone else before. “Is going to be okay, hurry.” 

“It’s not okay.” he mumbles almost drunkenly, which causes Boris to frown because he is certain they’d had nothing to drink before they went to sleep that night—he turns slightly and catches sight of a tall glass on the bedside table, less than an inch of clear liquid in the bottom of it. Glass-almost-empty. It could very well be water, but Boris knows Theo better than that; and considering the way he can’t stand up and is on the verge of throwing up, it’s rather plain to see that it’s vodka. 

On the threshold of the bathroom now, Boris has his arms hooked under his friend’s undependable ones; he’s saying something, but it doesn’t quite make it to Boris’ ears. His body is so lifeless it’s like he’s already dead. “There, come on.” he encourages him, not noticing his own heart pounding like there’s a gun fight in his chest—and even if he did notice, he wouldn’t mention it, because Theo would start worrying and that would only make the circumstances worse. 

He retches once, and collapses on the floor in front of the toilet—releasing whatever food he had inside his stomach (which isn’t much) and the utterly unpleasant sound of it rings in Boris’ ears; who squeezes his eyes shut for a moment like it would make it disappear. Theo is only wearing a pair of black boxer shorts and an old oversized shirt and Boris wonders if he notices the cool sensation of the bathroom tiles against the skin on his bare legs, but that thought is most likely not circulating in his mind as he continues to heave into the toilet bowl. Boris—dressed similarly—crouches down beside his best friend and starts rubbing tranquilizing circles on his back, squinting in the sudden harsh white light as his eyes adjust. None of it feels quite real. He wouldn’t be surprised if he was sleeping, and these were all images produced by his dormant brain—strange and hazy like a faded photograph from a forgotten life, but the contact is all too real. 

Theo’s face is as pale as the porcelain sink, he’d stopped vomiting and his elbows rested against the toilet seat with his head supported by the palms of his hands; trying to catch his breath, eyes closed. Boris leaves his hand on his back as a reassurance that he’s not going anywhere, and he adjusts his position so he is able to sit cross-legged on the floor beside Theo. He notices the sensation of the bathroom tiles, but ignores it; craning his head to try and get a better look at his face. 

He slides his hand up slightly, fiddling with the hair at the nape of Theo’s neck almost unconsciously. He doesn’t find it strange. He hopes Theo doesn’t, either. 

“Potter?” His voice is quiet, strange with sleep like he needs to clear his throat, and he does subtly as though not to startle him. “How do you feel?” 

Theo clears his own throat, and sniffles. “Like shit,” it appears that he relaxes when Boris softly moves his fingers through his hair and delicately smiles at him even though he won’t be able to see it. “I’m sorry for waking you.” 

“Is no bother,” Boris reassures him. “Were you drinking when I was sleeping?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Oh, Potter,” a sad smile. “You should’ve woken me earlier, I would’ve drank with you and then we both would be throwing up together.” 

This gets a quiet laugh out of him. “It doesn’t affect you as easily as it affects me.” 

“I know, I know,” Boris sighs. “At least is out of your system now.”

Theo lifts his head up and wipes his mouth with the back of his forearm, Boris’ hand slips out of his hair and he awkwardly puts it in his own lap. “Since when did you become a doctor?”

“Since I had to start taking care of you.” 

Theo frowns. “Oh, yeah.”

“Hey, I said is no bother! Don’t look so guilty.” Boris says when Theo’s face drops into an expression like the  _ Monalisa _ . He thinks that if da Vinci were alive today, he’d probably want to paint Theodore Decker’s emotionless expression and have it placed in a museum where people can walk by and wonder what misfortunes this young boy went through during his life. “ _ Oh, doesn’t he look so sad?”  _ they’d say, and move on to the next tragedy painted in oil on canvas. 

“I’m just sorry you have to put up with this shit.”

Boris quirks up an eyebrow. “Potter, I do not  _ have  _ to put up with anything.” he then leans over to flush the toilet and Theo pushes himself back away from it. “All gone. You got some on your shirt though, you should change.” 

He sighs and pulls his shirt over his head, leaving it inside out on the floor. “I still feel fucking disgusting.” 

“Take a bath.” Boris suggests, trying not to gaze at his pale skin and bony torso for too long as he twists to shove the discarded shirt further away from him. 

A grimace. “Seriously?”

“Yes, am serious! Will make you feel better. I will steal some of Xandra’s coconut shampoo if you want.” 

“It’s like… three in the morning—”

“Potter, the time has not stopped you doing many things so why matter now? I know the water is not great, but you will be refreshed.” Boris gestures with his hands to the bathtub to his right, and Theo looks at it like he’d never really noticed it was there before. He’d usually just use the shower in the main bathroom. 

He sighs. “Alright,” another sniffle, Boris can tell he’s still in some sort of alcoholic daze. “Sure.” 

“Good,” Boris smiles reassuringly at him, they look at each other for a moment and Boris realises three things: taking care of Theo somewhat helps him to take care of himself, it makes him feel as though he’s doing something good, something noble. He takes care of Theo because he thinks he deserves to be cared for, and—finally, he takes care of him because he loves him. “I’ll get some of that shampoo.” 

The taps are turned on and the bath is filled with warm water in approximately ten minutes. Theo spends most of that time sat on the bathroom floor slowly watching the water rise and Boris sneaks off to the other bathroom, attempting to quietly tip-toe across the hall to grab some of Xandra’s shampoo; he even gets some bubble bath he finds in the (extremely creaky) cupboard under the sink. When he returns, after passing through the bedroom, the clock now reading  _ 3:26AM _ , he sees Theo leaning his arm against the edge of the bathtub, his cheek pressed against it; dragging his fingers delicately through the water like it was a phenomenon he’d never come into contact with before. 

Boris spends a few moments in the doorway looking at him, a warmth settling over his heart. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen him look so peaceful.

Theo ends up climbing in the bath with his boxer shorts still on because he doesn’t want Boris to leave the room, he doesn’t take too long to agree to the idea—he has to admit, he’s worried he’ll pass out in the tub if he leaves him alone; so he stays.

“There’s this quote,” Theo starts, now sat in the bath, letting the bubbles drip through his fingers like a child. His wet hair sticks to his forehead but he makes no effort to move it. “By Nietzsche. It goes: _ One ought to hold on to one’s heart; for if one lets it go, one soon loses control of the head too _ _ . _ ” 

Boris frowns. “And what do you think that means?” 

“I don’t know. My mother said it once, it’s always stuck with me,” he cups a handful of water in the palms of his hands and splashes it gently on his face. “I think I’m scared to hold onto my heart.”

Boris looks away from Theo for a few moments then, and looks at the gaps between the tiles on the floor in thought, dragging his fingers along the lines, creating a therapeutic pattern that puts him at ease. Theo’s words made his breath hitch in his throat as he listened to them, and he spends time absorbing them before he responds. He wants to know what his heart is saying and if it’s saying the same thing as his own is. Breathe in, three drips from the faucet, breathe out, four drips from the faucet. A gentle movement of water. Breathe in, breathe out. It’s too quiet and the voices in his head are too loud. He begs the streetlight to make a noise, but he knows that it won’t. It’s just the two of them in that silent bathroom, talking about being afraid of their own hearts. 

“Your mother seemed very wise, Potter.” he says, almost under his breath, gaze still fixed on the cream coloured tiles. He starts counting them. 

“She was.” he responds. Boris wonders if he’s going to take his glasses off so they don’t get wet. “What do you think it means?”

He breathes in slowly. “I think,” one, two, three, four— “I think the heart and head work together, but never let one overpower the other. Because? Well, then you might as well be dead.” he’s still looking at the floor, he hears Theo turn to look at him. “You need to be rational, make good decisions. With your head you know what’s right, but your heart? That will tell you if it’s right for  _ you.  _ It will tell you how it makes you feel. That should not be ignored, never.” 

“I don’t think either of us make very good decisions, Boris.” 

“No— can’t deny that.” he kneels up, placing his hands on the edge of the bathtub to support him. He looks at Theo fondly now, noticing the droplets of water on his skin, the locks of hair dripping, his glasses fogging with the steam like he doesn’t even notice. He smiles sadly, flicking his own hair out of his eyes, and carefully removes Theo’s tortoiseshell glasses; folding the arms in and placing them on the floor away from the water. “But we can only try our best, no?” 

“Yeah,” he agrees. Boris squeezes a handful of shampoo into his palm, a warm coconut scent filling his nostrils. “I guess.”

“You are like a philosopher, Potter. But I think you are afraid to live by your own philosophy,” he moves his hands towards Theo’s hair and begins to slowly massage the shampoo into it, feeling very much like a parent of a child, or a husband to a— “Hold onto your heart and do not let it go.”

Theo pauses thoughtfully for a few moments, clearly letting his words soak through his skin, then decides to say nothing else about it: “You don’t have to do this, you know?” 

Boris then fills a cup with bath water before shielding his best friend’s eyes and delicately pouring it over his hair, the bubbles gradually washing themselves out and swirling around like constellations. “No, I don’t. But feels good though?”—Theo only nods as Boris continues to wash out the rest of his hair—“Do you feel better?”

“That’s a broad question.” 

Boris’ hand stops, just on the back of Theo’s neck. “Don’t be like that.”

“Like what?”

He laughs to himself and shakes his head, raven hair falling in his eyes. “You are impossible.”

“Fuck off, you piece of shit.” Theo teases, turning his head, Boris’ hand somehow ends up cupping his cheek. 

“I do this for you and this is what I get in return?” he scoffs, trying not to burst into hysterical fits of laughter. 

“Feeling better is a  _ myth,  _ the world is fucked up.” 

“Yeah, yeah. I know, Potter. I know.” although they are bickering as they always do, Boris still manages to trace his thumb delicately over his cheekbone. “You are such a pessimist.”

“Shut up!” 

“What? Is true!” Boris says, then, mimicking Theo;  _ “Oh, the world sucks. We are all going to die anyway _ —”

“I fucking hate you, you know that?” 

“I know,” Boris’ voice is quiet, as if he is suddenly worried there’s someone listening outside of the bathroom door; the moment is somewhere between their typical playful nature, and delicate and tender. The whole situation feels like an oxymoron, there’s nothing quite like it. “But I think that you love me, truly.” 

“Do I?” Theo asks, leaning his head back subtly and looking up at Boris. 

Suddenly he finds it hard to breathe. It’s quiet again. A part of him hopes Theo wont remember this in the morning, but he probably completely sobered him up by making him take that bath. He seems to forget a lot of moments like these. Boris won't admit that it makes him upset. He can’t let that show.

_ Why does it make you so sad?  _

“Yes…” he breaks their silence, realises certain words are better left unsaid, and slowly leans over to refill the cup (that he was still holding in his free hand) with water. “—and you are going to love me even more when I do  _ this _ .” 

He dumps the cup of water over Theo’s head in one swift motion, essentially shattering that point in time that previously existed between the two castaway boys who are afraid of their own hearts. Theo’s arm swings out and he grabs Boris in a reflex reaction, and after harshly whispering some profanities, he hurls a splash of water over him. He gasps, hair already dripping with water that Theo had thrown at him. He reaches to cup more, but Boris grabs his wrists to stop him; the two of them laughing and grappling around in a play fight. His shirt is soaked through, and Theo is on the verge of pulling him right in the bath with him. 

They pause, and Theo wiggles free of Boris’ grip. “Feel better now?” he pushes Boris’ hair back from his forehead, raking his fingers through it, half-wet-half-dry. He lets out a quiet laugh, the two of them breathing heavily. 

“Fuckin’  _ fantastic. _ ”

* * *

_ OCTOBER 21ST, 2005  _ _ — 190 days until Potter leaves  _

The school hall is nearing on empty, a few slamming lockers and harsh ceiling lights glaring; flickering, even. Forgotten homework sheets on the floor, decaying handmade posters falling from the walls, a pungent smell of chemicals and anxiety, permanent markers and vandalised textbooks with the pages torn out:  _ turn to page 47, turn to page 96, go back to page 33, now go to page 117; _ only to find a page full of inaccurately drawn genitals and various initials written in the margins with love hearts and smiley faces and doodles of things that didn’t quite make sense. Boris only continues to go to school because Theo does. 

“Boris!” he turns away from his locker at the sound of a familiar voice, and spots Theo walking towards him; emerging from his algebra class a good few minutes after everyone had already left to head home. They always met by one of their lockers, depending on who got out of class first. 

He’s awkwardly shoving a sheet of paper into his backpack when he approaches him, glasses sliding down his nose, pushing them up after he zips up his bag and swings it back over his shoulder; slipping his other arm through the unused strap. Dark blonde hair and pretty brown eyes, an untucked beige shirt and dark blue jeans, dirty old converse and a nose that has remained pink and freckled ever since he arrived in Vegas just over a year ago. A whole year Boris has known his Potter, yet it feels like an entire lifetime. A lifetime of stealing steak and apples, smoking by the pool, getting high in the playground and watching shitty television with Popchyk asleep on his chest and Theo passed out drunk on the floor. Boris doesn’t like to remember his life before that, because this life he has now? He can’t imagine ever giving it up.

He smiles. He always smiles at Theo. “Ah, Potter!” he meets him halfway, flicking his hair out of his face and his black boots making a subtle squeaking sound on the floor, backpack slung over one shoulder. “Why are you so late? Did she hold you back?”

“Kinda, well —” he starts, looking down to his shoes, absently poking at the ground that won’t break. “She asked me if I needed help.” 

Boris frowns. “Help? With what?” 

Theo doesn’t respond straight away, and when he looks up he doesn’t meet Boris’ gaze and instead stares down the long stretch of corridor that leads to the glass double doors that allow them to exit the school—the sun shines through in strips of light, but stops just before their feet. “You know… if I’m feeling okay, if everything’s alright at home. All that shit, it doesn’t really matter.” 

“What a fucking surprise that even one person in this school gives a shit,” Boris scoffs, and then looks at his friend to try and catch his eyes; but when he doesn’t, he turns on his heel and swings an arm over his shoulders. “You are okay when you are with me, Potter! Now, I think we may have missed the bus.” 

“Fuck,” Theo says as the two of them begin to slowly walk towards the exit, Boris notices him leaning into his side a little more than usual. “We could get the CAT bus but I don’t have any money, do you?”—a shake of the head—“Well, we’re gonna have to walk. At least it’s not too hot today.”

“Won’t be too awful… but you are sure your father can’t pick us up?” Boris asks.

Theo turns to look at him, raised eyebrows. “He isn’t going to do shit for us, Boris. I don’t think I’d even want to ask.”

Doors pushed open, everywhere deserted: no school busses in sight, only a few students hanging around waiting for their parents who cared a little more than Theo’s dad did, and the odd stray teacher dragging their feet to their cars on a single cup of coffee. “Of course, was just making sure.” 

They continue the walk home—Theo’s house, actually—by the side of the deserted road, a long sand covered stretch of it that would usually take the school bus a mere few minutes to cover. Boris doesn’t mind walking, he used to do it alone before he even met Theo, now it’s just more bearable being by his side; sometimes they talk so much they can make the journey feel like no time at all when it actually takes well over an hour.

They’re walking side by side, arms bumping against each other every so often and hands awkwardly knocking each other—something Boris would usually never take notice of because he’s so used to being in close proximity with him; holding him in the night, letting him fall asleep on his lap, wrestling in front of the TV for the last tortilla chip as Popchyk barks around them in a frenzy, randomly poking at his sides to make him double over in a giggle, knees knocking together under the dining table, brushing his hair out of his face delicately whilst he doesn’t even notice, tracing relaxing circles over his back when he’s facing the other way, bottle sharing, shotgunning—Boris remembers it all. Every last detail. He doesn’t know why he’s so aware of it now. 

The sun should set earlier, since it’s October, but the warmth tearing through the sky is enough to irritate them—there are a few clouds dotted around the vast expanse of blue, but there are too few to be of any help. Boris thinks he hears someone walking close by, but he doesn’t take any notice at the time.

“Potter, can I ask something?”

Theo looks at him through squinted eyes, but he doesn’t meet him halfway—instead he just keeps looking forward, as if it’ll help them get home faster. “I mean—yeah, sure.”

He pauses, considering. “Never mind, is stupid. Doesn’t matter.” he kicks at the sand with his boot, changes the subject. “I looked at the channels yesterday, for today, you know. Tonight I think there is some art thing you may like, we could watch. I could steal us some of that weird American corn shit from the store—what do you call it, popcorn? Stupid name, anyway, thought it would be nice. If your father is not watching football, or something.”

He glances at Theo once, just from the corner of his eye; he’s frowning. Most likely because he brushed off his question so quick, like brushing sand off the bottom of their shoes—but even that never seemed to completely disappear. “He’ll probably be out of the house, it’s Friday. Him and Xandra always go out on Fridays.”

Boris nods slowly. “Is good, always nice when they are not in the house. Not that they care what we do when they are there, anyway.”

It’s quiet again, then: “Are you okay, Boris?”

He looks at Theo now, and his eyes are filled with concern behind his glasses that catch small reflections of the sun just in the corner of each lense. His hair moves lightly with the wind, and his nose is scrunched up in that way it always is when something doesn’t quite make sense to him. 

Boris says it like everything’s fine, but he can’t deny that he's worried Theo is seeing something he doesn’t want him to see. “Of course I’m okay! What makes you ask that?” 

“I don’t know, you just seem a little different,” Theo says. “But if you’re sure—”

“Don’t be an idiot, I am sure! Now, I actually have some vodka in my bag, if you want to—”

“Boris.” 

“What?” 

“What was your question? What did you wanna ask me?” Theo asks, and Boris wishes he didn’t. 

He scoffs. “Nothing, Potter. I said it does not matter.” he continues to walk forward, but he realises Theo is no longer walking beside him and he stops, turning on his heel he finds him standing a few feet away; arms crossed over his chest. Boris sighs, mimicking his stance and staring back at him with an impatient look. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Your question seemed important, I’m just curious.” he shrugs.

Boris steps back once, rocking on his heels. “So, you are saying you will not move until I ask?” 

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Theo raises an eyebrow. 

Boris lets out a heavy sigh, not wanting to give in to him. “I will just leave you here.”

“No you won’t.” 

Unfortunately, he’s right. “You are so—” he tries not to roll his eyes, and swings his backpack around to his front; unzipping it he fishes around in crumpled up paper and small empty plastic bags until his fingers come into contact with the glass bottle—he pulls it out by the neck, holding it up like he’s proud of it. “What do you say… compromise?”

Theo considers this for a moment, not saying anything, and then walks to catch up with Boris, snatching the bottle from him in passing, continuing to walk ahead. Boris is left in a daze for a few moments, like a cool breeze had just passed him in the desert when he needed it the most, leaving a delicate smile on his face and his eyes dreamily fixed on the back of the boy who was slowly walking away, further down the sandy path and further out of his reach. He turns on his heel and starts to walk backwards. He puts the bottle to his lips and takes a considerably large gulp of it before stopping and holding it out, leaning forward slightly with one hand behind his back as if he were asking Boris to dance. 

When he continues to stare at him as if he were walking on water, he frowns and straightens himself up. “Okay, you’re fucking freaking me out now.” 

Boris shakes his head to wash away the fragments of the daydream he was just absorbed in, and starts to catch up, the two of them falling into step again—walking in sync. “I am fine, Potter. Can you stop asking.”

“I don’t believe you.”

_ I do not believe me, either.  _

“Yes, well, that is your personal problem.” Boris shrugs, grabbing the bottle from Theo and letting the liquid burn his throat when he drinks it—when his lips touch the glass, he thinks about the lips that touched it before his. “Want to know what I was about to ask you?” 

He lets out a tipsy laugh.  _ God,  _ Boris thinks,  _ Potter, Potter… such a lightweight.  _ “I mean… if you want to.”

“So now you do not care? I won’t tell you then.” he shrugs, pulling the bottle out of Theo’s reach when he lunges for it. It’s not hard for Boris to hold it too high for his shorter friend to grab, and in the attempt his hands come into contact with him, sliding down Boris’ outstretched arms in defeat. It’s then he realises how small Theo’s hands are in comparison to his own. 

He manages to poke Boris in the stomach to get him to double over, and pulls the bottle out of his grip in one swift motion. “No, tell me. I want to know.”

“Fuck—okay, Potter. Okay.” Boris sighs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Have you ever kissed anyone?”

It slips out before he has another chance to consider it. He hopes Theo doesn’t take it the wrong way, he doesn’t mean it in any particular way, actually. At least that’s what he tells himself, he’s just curious, that’s all; Theo doesn’t ever talk about things like that. Boris has done his fair share of disclosing his own experience and list of  _ things like that  _ but from Theo he’s scarcely heard a word. His question, truthfully, should have been  _ have you ever kissed anyone other than me?  _ But, of course, Theo doesn’t remember that. Boris doesn’t know if he thinks it’s better that way. He doesn’t know what he thinks at all. 

Theo’s initial reaction is clearly confusion, slowly removing the bottle from where it was resting against his bottom lip after taking another drink—clearly too much for his small body to handle, it’s always too much; that’s why he barely remembers—and bringing his eyebrows together in thought. “That was your question? What the fuck, Boris?” 

“ _ Zatknis blyat.  _ You going to answer it or not?” he responds, considering taking the bottle from Theo again but instead he lets him keep it for a little while longer. He doesn’t know why he feels a little bit flustered. He never gets like that. He thinks he might be hungry because his stomach twists and turns in a familiar way, maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe he just needs a smoke, maybe—

_ Maybe.  _

“I mean, Pippa kissed me once but that was weird.” Theo shrugs.

Boris turns to him with wide eyes. “Pippa! The little red head you write the love letters to! What a fucking  _ sap,  _ I did not know she kissed you!” 

“Well, she was probably high on morphine at the time. Plus, I wiped my mouth afterwards. I don’t know why. It felt strange.” Theo clears his throat, like the vodka had got stuck there and was causing an uncomfortable burn. 

Boris loudly snorts and bumps his shoulder against Theo’s. “You wiped your mouth!  _ Yobanyi karas!  _ Fucking idiot, what did you do that for?” 

“Fuck off! I panicked.” he shoves him back, a little more aggressively. 

“So… is not a real kiss then. Does not count, Potter.” Boris teases, finally taking the bottle back which contents Theo had consumed too much by that point. 

“It fucking  _ does  _ count—”

“Did she use her tongue?”

He pushes him again. “Boris! You’re fucking disgusting. She was still on bedrest.” 

“Is not disgusting, don’t be like that until you have tried. Anyway, this red head seems to not write back to you much. I think you must give up on her, long distance? Ah, I do not believe she would have the effort for it.” sticking an arm out to support his friend when he stumbles, he notices they have journeyed off the roadside and are now walking along the long stretch of sand—the outskirts of the different neighbourhoods in sight, but still looking a million miles away. 

Theo scoffs. “How the fuck would you know?” 

He swings his arm over his shoulders again, because it gets to a point where he can’t even manage to support his own weight. “Just trust me, Potter.” he impulsively ruffles his hair, watching it flop back down out of the corner of his eye. “Let me know when you have experienced a real kiss.”

What happens next happens too fast for either of them to register or even react. 

Theo is pulled backwards and out of Boris’ grip by an unknown force, and after he spends a few blank minded moments not having any idea what just happened, he spins on his heel and sees an older guy standing over Theo who’s collapsed on the floor. He can’t see who it is, it looks like one of the homeless senior guys who hangs around the back-roads too much and freaks out the younger kids—his long greasy hair sticks out the back of his winter hat and his long black coat covers up most of his body. He snatches the half empty vodka bottle out of Theo’s grip, and he swings out to try and get it back, but the older guy (in one swift motion, Boris thinks he imagines it it’s so fast) brings his fist down in reaction and punches him in the mouth. He curses under his breath, Theo tries to scream at him, Boris can’t move. 

Eventually, he starts running in the opposite direction with the vodka in his arms like it’s a newborn child; a chill washes over Boris in a split second like he’s brought back to reality, and he tries to run after him. “Hey! Fucking twat! What the fuck was that for?” a mumble of curse words in a variety of languages, then: “You could just fucking  _ ask  _ next time! Fucking— shit, he’s gone.” 

He stops in the middle of the road, breathless, and flicks the hair out of his eyes. The sun is setting now, the sky a mixture of pinks, blues, and oranges. He’d take a moment to appreciate it if it weren’t for what just happened. He turns back around and sees Theo still laying sprawled out on the sand, and when he quickens his pace to catch up with him he sees his body shaking— _ is he crying? _ —yet, instead, it turns out that he’s laughing rather hysterically. Boris stands, looking down at him for a few moments; he’s got his arms crossed over his stomach and his eyes squeezed shut and he lets out the loudest laughter Boris thinks he’s ever heard. 

“You are laughing? What the fuck, Potter! Do you even know what just happened to you?” he yells, and Theo only laughs harder. 

“Boris, oh my god. Did you see that guy?” he snorts. “I felt like I was flying.” 

Boris sighs, and sees that Theo’s getting a lot of sand in his hair when he rolls to the side in another wave of giggles. He would laugh, too; but he feels more angry and frustrated. He doesn’t know why. “Are you okay? Did you get hurt?”

“Don’t think so…” he pushes himself up into a sitting position, frowning, laughter subsiding. “He didn’t hit me that hard.” 

“Fucking  _ bastard,  _ I’ll get him back for that.”

“Boris, don’t. It’s fine, see? I’m fine.” Theo smiles up at him, throwing his arms out in a gesture he imagines to be reassuring; but blood only begins to trickle out of a very apparent cut on his lip like a scarlet tear. Boris crouches down and looks at him closer; he still has a drunken smile on his face like he’s going to burst into another round of laughter any minute, and his eyes droop shut every so often as if he’s struggling to keep them open. He leans back on his hands to support his weight, and he brings his leg up to poke Boris in the shoulder with the toe of his shoe. “I’m really fine, stop looking at me like that.” 

“Maybe is a good thing he took that from you, you’re fucked.” Boris lets out a slight laugh then, but Theo frowns at him. 

“Okay,  _ now _ you’re being really weird.” 

“What do you mean?”

“You’re being all—I don’t know. Usually you don’t give a shit when I drink too much, what’s gotten into you?” 

_ Because I have realised I do not like it when you forget. _

He shrugs it off. “Was just joking, Potter.” 

“You weren’t.”

“What? I fucking care about you, okay?” Boris raises his voice, and Theo doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t look like he has the ability to. The silence in the desert is almost deafening, and Boris’ words ring in his mind over and over like an echo he’ll never be able to shake. “You’re bleeding.” 

Theo touches his bottom lip and brings his fingers away, squinting at the blood that’s left there like he can’t quite tell what it is. He laughs once, Boris thinks he’s already forgotten what he just said. “Well, fuck,” he rubs his thumb over it, only spreading it more. “Hey, Boris. I have an idea.” 

Boris raises an eyebrow. “What?” 

“You could kiss it better.”

He waits a few moments to see if he’s joking, but he doesn’t say another word; he only continues to look at Boris in a daze, eyes slowly travelling over every angle of his face—more often than not, stopping at his lips. “You’re drunk, Potter.” he shakes his head, and then lets himself sit down opposite him—regretting it immediately, because now they’re too close. 

“So what?” 

He knows he should say no because this is something Theo would never do sober, but the most part of him wants to agree to it. He wants to kiss him, but he doesn’t want him to kiss him back if he doesn’t mean it. He avoids looking at him, and instead focuses on the grains of sand on his jeans. “So—” he says, taking a pause. “Look, we should keep walking. I am starving.” 

“Boris.”

“What, Potter?” 

He pouts. “Please?” 

Boris wishes there was a way to know what the  _ fuck  _ is going on in his friend’s head right now, but perhaps also a way to figure out what’s going on in his own. He should refuse, he should stand up and pull Theo up with him and tell him they’re going home and completely forget what he had even asked. He should never bring it up again, it’s not right to give in to him when he’s in a state like this. It’s not right to know he won’t remember, or not mean it the way Boris means it—and the unfortunate thing is, Boris will do anything for Theo if he asks. He’d run in front of a car for him, jump in front of a bullet, hate anyone he hated and always put him first no matter the circumstances. He’s only asking for a simple kiss, and yet this is the one decision Boris is finding hardest to make. 

He closes his eyes and breathes out slowly for a moment. “I do not understand.” 

“Just do it, Boris.” 

“Do  _ what? _ ” 

“Kiss me.” 

It rarely rains in Las Vegas. Boris wishes the sky would open up in a downpour in that moment, to stop his thoughts from being so loud—but it doesn’t. It’s silent, like the two of them are the only people in existence, or the only people for a few miles, at least. The sun continues to gradually set, the earth turns, ordinary parents fuss over their childrens’ dinners, high schoolers smoke weed behind abandoned buildings, shop owners remain oblivious to shoplifters, dogs are walked, plants are watered, dishes cleaned and television watched—but it all seems to stop at that moment. No one else exists but Theo and Boris, they have the entire planet to themselves. 

“You are fucking  _ crazy. _ ” Boris says, as a final opportunity for Theo to burst into laughter and say he’s joking—but he doesn’t. 

He only shrugs, and shuffles closer. Boris notices the blood trickling down his chin on the verge of dripping. “Promise I won’t wipe my mouth.” 

_ Well, no going back now I suppose.  _

Boris puts one hand on the side of Theo’s face and looks at him for a moment, feeling his soft skin under his fingers; and the earth stops turning for real. He can’t decide if his heart stops beating or is pulsing erratically at a hundred miles an hour—no one has ever made him feel like this, no one he’s ever been with before (not as many as he makes it seem) has made him nervous. Boris Pavlikovsky, fearless and formidable, daring and carefree—feeling vulnerable in his closeness to Theo Decker. It’s then he understands. He understands he loves him too much, and that’s the one thing that scares him. 

He lets himself do it, because a part of him hopes he’ll remember this time—but even if he does remember, he’ll never bring it up again, and the two of them will continue to live in silence; running out of time and they don’t even know it, a countdown clock they’re not aware of, time slipping through their fingers. Maybe if they became aware of it they’d realise they have nothing to lose. 

Boris leans forward and slowly, but surely, let’s their lips touch—immediately tasting the blood, a metallic taste settling in his own mouth; reminding him that they’re bound together by it, and he thinks they always will be. It feels different, being out in the open; but there’s no one in sight for miles—at least he hopes there isn’t—and when he kisses Theo here, like this… he doesn’t want to stop. When he feels him delicately put his hand on the side of his face, he wants to lean into it and move closer. When they pull away, he wants to say  _ kiss me again, just once more…  _ but he can’t. He knows he can’t. 

They’re looking at each other now, and Boris wants nothing more than to lean back in and do it again, but Theo just smiles sadly, tears brewing in his brown eyes; threatening to spill at any moment. His voice is cracked and rough. “I’m sorry.” he whispers, brushing his thumb over Boris’ cheekbone for a second longer, and then pulling his arm away—the moment is broken, Boris is left in the cold. Heart sinking, he doesn’t know what else he expected.

Theo pushes himself up with a sigh and walks a few steps ahead, Boris is still sat on the ground. He doesn’t blame him. He knows it’s better this way, for the both of them. 

“Are you coming, Boris?”

He touches his lips, and the blood comes away, glinting on his fingers like a red wine stain on a white carpet. This feeling won’t pass. 

“Yeah,” Boris sighs, and pushes himself up too, walking to catch up with him. “Still want to go steal some popcorn?”

  
  


* * *

_ APRIL 28TH, 2006 — 1 day, 6 hours, 17 minutes and 15 seconds until Potter leaves _

“Does it still hurt?” 

Sitting on the floor in front of the small television in the dark living room, the only sources of light being a small lamp in the corner, the setting sun outside, and the television screen itself; glinting against their faces and making the room feel as if it’s moving. Popchyk lays fast asleep on Boris’ lap as he always does, and he absentmindedly ruffles the dirty white fur on his head—looking over at Theo who’s lying on his side, supporting himself by leaning against his hand, but ensuring it’s against the cheekbone that his father didn’t throw a punch at the day before. 

Theo shrugs one shoulder, keeping his eyes fixed on the television—not really taking in what was being shown ( _ Animal Planet, _ or something), the volume is turned almost all the way down. “A little, yeah.”

They’re supposed to go to the park soon, to try the acid Boris had managed to get his hands on through Kotku—they’re waiting until it gets dark, because Boris knows it’s better at night time, so they’re passing the time in Theo’s empty house; which is usually no problem at all when they’re laughing and joking with each other. Boris can tell he’s more relaxed when Larry and Xandra aren’t around, especially after what had happened the day prior—but it seems he’s slipped back into a depressive state, it’s easy to recognise after knowing him so long; Boris can hear it in his voice, he mumbles when he talks, and sometimes he doesn’t move for hours on end—not even to go to the bathroom. He doesn’t like seeing him like this, and he can only hope the drugs will bring some well needed life into him when they try them later on.

“It will pass, I know it will. Remember when my dad fucked me up that one time and you had to run outside? Pain did not bother me soon after. You will be just fine. Your father? I did not think he would be the sort, but you never know I guess.” Boris shrugs, and Theo glances at him for a moment out of the corner of his eye.

“It’s not much in comparison to what your dad did to you.” 

“So? Still hurts. Pain is pain.” Boris says philosophically.

“I mean—” Theo starts. “Your dad broke one of your ribs once, that’s way worse than just one whack to the face.” 

“Potter, I grew up with that, you did not. It must be strange for you, it’s just the truth.” Boris explains, and Theo looks down to the floor like he understands. “If you want, you can hit me and then we will match.” 

Theo scoffs. “I’m not gonna hit you, Boris.” 

“Suit yourself.” he quirks up an eyebrow, and then lifts the dog up gently, placing him on a pillow to his side surprisingly not waking him in the process. “Anyway, I’m fucking hungry, you got anything in? Do you think Xandra left some of those cocktail sausages? Ah, they’re good. Do you have any of those, Potter?” Boris goes on, looking at Theo expectantly for his answer. 

“Not a fucking clue,” Theo sighs. “There’s probably nothing, but you can look.” 

Boris pushes himself up from the floor and begins to walk barefooted to the kitchen, but then he hears an aggressive knock at the door. His head turns rapidly to the direction of the front of the house, and he sees Theo has done the same; a panicked expression on his face. “Fuck, I hope to  _ god  _ that’s not mister what’s-his-name. Or Kotku’s other man. Potter, why the fuck would he be at your house?” 

Theo looks at him blankly, as if to say,  _ are you fucking kidding me?  _ “It’s probably not him, Boris. It could be Mr. Silver, though…” he pauses, almost as if he tries to catch a breath that gets caught in his throat. “Can you just look out the window and check?” he suggests, and the two of them look at each other for a few long moments in some unspoken staring contest before Boris blinks and finally gives in, turning on his heel and walking towards the front door. 

After a few moments of peering through the window like some sort of undercover spy, he drops the curtain closed, whips back around and looks at Theo with a frown. “It’s Kotku.” 

Theo groans and then rolls onto his back, lying flat on the floor. “If you guys are going to fucking argue please take it outside.” 

Boris tries not to roll his eyes at Theo’s immediate reaction, he still doesn’t understand why he despises Kotku so much.  _ What did she ever do to him? _ “Okay, Potter. I will spare you! If she has come to take the drugs back I swear—”

“Just answer the fucking door and talk to her outside then!” Theo almost yells, causing Popchyk to raise his head in confusion. 

“You fucking woke him up, idiot.” 

“He’ll be asleep again in a minute.” Theo ruffles the fur on his head like Boris always does, but he doesn’t seem to appreciate it as much. “Answer the door.” 

“I’m fucking  _ going. _ ” Boris glares at Theo for a moment longer, and he can’t tell if he wants to burst into laughter or argue with him. Maybe he wants to do both. The two of them are good at doing both at the same time, somehow; they can argue for hours on end but laugh about it. It’s always been that way, but when it comes to Kotku, Theo always seems to be genuinely angry—upset, even. Boris has spent time considering why, and he thinks; maybe, it’s the very reason  _ he _ was so adamant about dating her in the first place, and being in love with her. If he’s honest with himself, what he had been feeling for his best friend felt as though it was getting too serious and it scared him. It still scares him, because those feelings haven’t quite gone away.

He loves Theo, he knows that. He’s always known that, but the line between  _ love  _ and  _ being in love  _ had blurred and become almost nonexistent—leaving him drowning in living waters and gasping for breath every time they would spend the darkest nights at each other’s side, clutching each other like they can’t bear the thought of letting go. He knows he does an awful lot of taking care of Theo, and being there for him; but what he doesn’t know is that it works both ways. Knowing he has Theo in his life makes him feel safe and protected, and usually Boris—reckless, unpredictable Boris—doesn’t feel like he needs protecting; but he can’t deny how lost he would be if Theo left him. 

He’s pushing him away, he _has _been pushing him away by not saying anything about particular moments Theo clearly forgets; or maybe moments he’s just as scared to bring up as Boris is. He shrugs it off like it’s nothing, he thought being with Kotku would help him do that, but somehow; it’s only made his feelings for Theo all the more apparent and harder to shake. He realised he was absolutely _fucked _that day they kissed—it wasn’t the first time—but it’s been months since it happened, and Boris still thinks of it every single day. They’ve been with each other since then, drunkenly stumbling around in Theo’s room laughing, hands on each other just _needing _to feel close to someone. _That’s what it is, right?_ _It’s not about Potter_, Boris often tells himself, _it’s just about a need for affection. That is all. _

But then he met Kotku, and nothing felt the same. Nothing felt as good, nothing felt as  _ right  _ as it did with Theo—but he pushed through it, he’s still  _ trying  _ to push through it—but he’s starting to realise he can’t to it anymore. He tried to cut things off with her, but then he changed his mind multiple times; and it just ended in a huge argument as it always does. He doesn’t know what he wants. He doesn’t know what’s right. 

He just wishes he didn't start feeling anything in the first place, but  _ god  _ it was too easy to fall in love with Theo Decker. It’s easy to love him too much—and if there’s one thing Boris stands by, it’s that he can’t be with those people; at least, not in  _ that  _ way. 

He knows he can never be with Theo the way he’s with Kotku, he knows what people would say about them. Boris would find a way to not give a shit, as he always does, but it’s not something he wants to put Theo through. Especially after what his dad did (not that it was about anything like that specifically, but it wouldn’t surprise him), and he knows what people do to  _ those _ kids at school—he can’t bear to see Theo get hurt like that. So to forget about it seemed like the best option for both of them, even though the pain is somehow worse than anything Boris has ever felt in his entire life—but he knows it’s just something he has to deal with. 

He swings open the door and looks at Kotku, dark hair falling in her eyes and a bored expression on her face; she’s got her arms crossed over her chest impatiently and is leaning too heavily on one foot, back arched slightly with bad posture; she begins to pick at her black nail polish when Boris makes himself known—slipping out of the house and closing the door behind him, the two of them standing on the porch. 

“I knew you’d be here.” she says accusingly. 

“Kotku, I am always here. You know this.” Boris shrugs, and watches her roll her eyes to herself and then pull out a cigarette—almost out of nowhere—and light it between her nimble hands.

She inhales and pulls it away after a few moments, releasing the smoke; not making any effort to avoid Boris. He doesn’t care. “Is that what you took the rest of the drugs for?” 

“What do you mean?”

“To do them with him.”

Boris immediately frowns at her. “Yes, I fucking  _ told  _ you already—”

“Relax, Boris. Jesus fuck,” she offers him some of the cigarette, and he happily obliges, shortly passing it back to her. “I just came to give you this.” she sticks her hand in the back pocket of her jeans and fishes out an iPod—Theo’s iPod, actually—and holds it out to Boris. The screen is cracked, like it was before, and the headphones are a tangled mess wrapped around it like a protective barrier. 

“Oh, fuck… you actually did it?” he takes the familiar device in his hands, turning it over, just to make sure it’s actually the right one; and he’s reminded of listening to  _ The Velvet Underground  _ and  _ Elliott Smith  _ among others with Theo, one earphone each, on the school bus or quietly falling asleep. 

Kotku scoffs. “It’s not fucking  _ hard  _ to make a playlist, dipshit. I just illegally downloaded the songs you asked for, they’re all on there.” 

“How much do you want for it, then?” 

“I don’t want your money,” she says, flicking the ash off of the end of her cigarette. Boris watches it float to the ground. “I just want you to be honest with me.” 

Boris must look at her with a confused expression, because she almost lets out a laugh. “Honest? I am always honest with you, I do not know what the fuck you are talking about.” 

“You’re not,” she says plainly. “You know what I’m talking about.” 

“What  _ are  _ you talking about, Kotyku?” 

She nods her head and glances at the window just to the side of Boris. “I’m talking about him.” 

“What?  _ Potter? _ What about him?” he raises his voice, but then brings it down again, realising that Theo could probably hear them bickering outside if he’s any louder. Undoubtedly, Boris knows exactly what she’s talking about, but he doesn’t want to admit it. 

“You’re fucking stupid, you know that?” she laughs. “I listened to the songs, Boris. I know that iPod is his, I know the playlist is for him. Do I look fucking  _ dumb  _ to you? Did you think I wouldn’t figure it out?”

Boris feels like he’s drowning in something that’s not water, suffocating him from the inside, applying pressure slowly, crushing his organs enough to kill him. Yes, he’d taken Theo’s iPod a few days ago and asked Kotku to make a playlist that he’d spent weeks trying to gather songs for; for reasons and meanings of their own, he saw someone do it in a movie. He thought it would be a good idea. Obviously it’s not as subtle as he first thought. “Kotku, I—”

“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” 

His first instinct is to deny it, like he’s still denying it in his head—but his breath gets caught in his throat when she asks, and that’s when he knows she’s right. 

“I just fucking care about him a lot, okay? That is all, it doesn’t have to be like…  _ romance,  _ it is not what you think. We are just very close, Potter and I. Yes, I do love him, but not like that. I love  _ you _ —”

“Boris, please cut the shit already. You love the  _ idea  _ of me because I help you to hide your actual feelings. It’s fucking obvious.” Kotku harshly whispers, and then lights another cigarette after she stomps the old one out on the floor. “You don’t look at me the way you look at him, you don’t go out of your way to make playlists for me, you talk about him  _ constantly. _ ”

“Why are you being so angry?”

She steps backwards slightly. “I’m not angry. I’m just trying to put things into perspective. Just fucking listen to what I’m saying—” 

“It can’t be like this… I can’t—I shouldn’t—” he sighs, crossing his arms over his chest; a protective barrier. “If it did happen that what you are saying is true, you realise I could not do anything about it?” 

There’s a silence then, and he realises he’s admitted it without actually saying plainly, and surprisingly; Kotku looks at him like she feels sorry for him, sad eyes and a calmer tone of voice. “Who the fuck cares? Be with who you want to be with, I’ve been with girls. No one cares.” 

Boris glances behind his shoulder as if he could see through the closed door. “He does.” 

“Look, I just—” she starts. “I was mad at you for wanting to break things off with me, and I always knew you two had  _ something  _ going on but this whole thing? Now I understand, I just want to make sure  _ you  _ understand, too.” 

Boris swallows the lump in his throat. “What are you doing this for?” 

“To knock some fucking sense into you,” she sighs. “I know he doesn’t like me, and I don’t like him either. It’s better if I stay out of the way.” 

She steps backwards until she’s a few metres away, looking like a ghost or a figment of Boris’ imagination. He wonders if he actually imagined the whole conversation for a moment, but then he grips the iPod in his hands tightly and realises nothing else has ever really felt more real.  _ Kotku, always so smart.  _ Boris thinks,  _ she saw right through me when I could not even see myself.  _

“So that is it? We’re done?” he asks, just to confirm what he is sure to be true. 

She only nods. “Good luck, Borya.” 

Then she disappears down the street, leaving Boris stood outside alone as if he were standing guard to protect Theo and Popchyk from anything that might try to hurt them. A lonely protector, someone who appears carefree and wild, but deep down they’re isolated in their own head with too many thoughts to dissect and pull apart like the analysis of some ancient text or the interpretation of a stolen painting; but that’s a different secret. Boris hates hiding things from Theo, and somehow the one Kotku had just figured out is the hardest one to admit to. 

He looks down at the iPod for a few moments and trances his thumb over the shattered screen before smiling sadly and turning on his heel, twisting the door handle and letting himself back in. It’s as if he’s sucked back into a different world, a world where only him, Theo and Popchyk exist and no one else  _ gives a shit.  _ It relaxes him, being in that world—but now, when he looks at Theo who’s moved to sit on the sofa, his legs pulled up to his chest; he wants to cry. He rarely ever cries.

“What was that all about?” Theo asks, turning to look at Boris who’s stood still like a statue—unmoving, unfeeling. 

Boris shakes his head in an attempt to get rid of his and Kotku’s conversation that found itself bouncing around in his head like a song that was too catchy. “Nothing, Potter. Was not important.”

_ It’s better if he does not know, for now. At least.  _

“It sounded pretty important.” 

Boris shakes his head and then walks around to the sofa, throwing himself down next to Theo; maybe a little too close. “She found this.” 

“Shit, my iPod? Why the fuck did she have that? I thought I lost it.” he takes it out of Boris’ hands—he ignores it when their skin touches—and tries to turn it on, but thankfully it needs charging and the screen stays black. He doesn’t want him to see it whilst he’s there.

Boris shrugs. “You left in school somewhere, she recognised it.”

Theo wraps the earphones back around the device and places it on the sofa next to him, Boris watches his hands closely. “Well, you can tell her I said thank you.” 

“Okay, Potter,” Boris says, knowing very well it’s unlikely he’ll ever speak to Kotku again. “I will.” 

They slip into a bubble of silence, a comfortable one, of course; they’re always comfortable. Popchyk snores quietly on the arm of the sofa and the two boys keep their eyes firmly fixed on the screen, having no idea what’s actually going on but being absorbed by it anyway, letting it take them away to somewhere they don’t have to think—turning their brains into static, but everything they see becomes black and white. Somehow—he doesn’t even see when it happens, exactly—Theo ends up laying his head in his lap, breathing slowly and delicately as if he’s having a pleasant dream; but Boris can tell he isn’t sleeping.

He brushes his fingers through his hair in a slow rhythm, letting him relax and reassuring him that it’s okay for them to be like this with each other. They don’t need to worry. No one will ever pull them apart, no matter how physically far away they end up being from each other. 

“Thank you for making me feel okay.” Boris whispers, as quiet as he can manage; like the way he whispers to him at night to calm him down from a nightmare, or just to remind him he’s always by his side. Theo doesn’t respond, he doesn’t need to. 

Boris knows he heard. 

* * *

_ APRIL 29TH, 2006 — 4 minutes and 27 seconds after Potter left _

The floor is like ice through his jeans when he sits down on the sidewalk and the cold wind bites at his skin, turning it a shade of pink; it burns when salty water runs down his cheeks in heavy droplets—but he doesn’t feel any of it. He doesn’t feel a single fucking thing. He doesn’t feel his hands that a mere few minutes ago held a lost face in between them, wishing his best friend good luck on his travels. He doesn’t feel his lips that he used to leave a final kiss, a final reminder of his love—a final attempt to make him stay; but he didn’t. He’s gone. 

He doesn’t feel okay anymore. 

**Author's Note:**

> boris' playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0m1RkPDGGY54Jc7yIV4cn7?si=zx-4RfMrR5iwGok0LdgfNg


End file.
